The Violinist
by The Cowgirl Bookworm
Summary: Hans Landa has stumbled upon a woman that he cannot figure out. She's obviously not French, but neither is she Jewish. Her house is a mix of opposites, and she keeps her secrets close to her. But if there's one thing Landa loves, it's a mystery.
1. Overture

Ah, Paris was a delight. So many people, all with their secrets. Mademoiselle du Gere was hiding an old copy of the Torah under her floorboards, and Pierre kept his Jewish neighbors silver hidden in his own. But their crimes were small ones, not worth his time. Not when he could be walking along the streets, enjoying the weather and the parting crowds. It amused him to see everyone step out of his way, even if it was accompanied by a glare or bit of spittle tossed his way.

Landa smiled as a French woman gave him the evil eye over a loaf of bread. He watched her bustle off, skirts twitching over the dirty street. There was something about this day, the anticipation that filled the air with the gray clouds moving in over the city. It would rain soon, and here he was without an umbrella. As if to confirm his thought a few fat drops splashed to the ground, sending up little clouds of dust. The crowds began to move faster, flocking to the cafes, stores, or doorsteps to escape the rain.

Landa walked down a side street, sidling under the edge of a building just as the sky let loose. He watched the rain quickly clean the streets, rushing everything towards the curbs. After ten minutes, he was examining the windows by the door. This rain could last for hours, and the stop of this house wasn't exactly the most comfortable place to stay. He knocked a couple times on the door, smiling when it opened.

The woman who stood there was fairly tall, her brown eyes a sharp contrast to her blonde hair. _Slavic features_, he mused to himself. The dress she was wearing had obviously seen better days, and from what he could see of the house it had as well. She glanced at his uniform, then up to his eyes. "Yes?"

Her French was accented somewhat, but he couldn't tell which accent it was. "I was hoping to get out of the rain, would you mind?" He gestured as if walking into the house. She opened the door and stepped out of the way. He walked in, looking around. The furniture was older, stitched back together in places. The rugs weren't bad, but he could see ash in one by the fireplace. A few bookcases were placed against a wall, their shelves sagging slightly. The lady of the house was running a duster over them, glancing back at him occasionally with suspicious eyes.

All in all, fairly normal for the French these days.

"My thanks, Mademaoiselle ..." He trailed off, looking to her.

"Daphne Defarge." She replied, turning around from where she had been dusting.

"Hopefully you aren't planning any revolutions." He chided, smirking when he saw her eyes narrow.

"No."

"Ah, where are my manners?" He shook his head. "Colonel Hans Landa, of the SS." He extended his hand to her. She made to shake it, but he instead pulled it up to his lips. It was a plain hand, the fingers long and callused. No wedding band or rings. In fact, she wasn't even wearing a necklace.

"I figured." She took her hand back, gripping her duster. "Your uniform is rather distinctive."

"That it is." He smirked. "I hope you do not mind my staying. I was not expecting rain when I left this morning." He shrugged his shoulders.

"It's fine. Sit, you can wait." She gestured toward an overstuffed chair that had been patched. He settled himself down, thankful that the chair was more comfortable that the stoop. Landa watched as she finished her dusting, moving upstairs. After a moment, he followed.

What he saw surprised him.

The room she had entered was unlike the rest of the house. The wood floors were clean, shining slightly as they had just been polished. The bookcases in here were newer than the ones downstairs, stacked with folios and leather-bound books. An upright piano sat in the corner, free of dust and the ivory keys bright. A few shelves had been built into one of the walls, and each held a few instrument cases. A massive bass rested against the wall, a smaller cello beside it. Daphne was at a desk, checking something in the drawer.

He couldn't help but speak.

"Mein Gott, this is lovely." He said, walking to one of the bookcases.

If Daphne found it odd that he followed, she said nothing about it. "I teach music to children, or anyone really."

This woman was a conundrum. She obviously wasn't French, her accent alone betrayed that. Her foyer was dirty and threadbare, but this room was clean and new. She had no issues letting an SS officer into her house, and was almost dismissive of him. He wanted to find out more about her, figure out who exactly she was. So he smiled, examining one of the music folios. He replaced it, then turned to her. "How fortunate! I have been looking for a music teacher."

"Really?"

"I have time on my hands, and I would enjoy learning. The violin, perhaps?" He walked toward the instruments. "Would you be willing? I will pay of course."

Daphne shifted on her feet, watching as he reached for a case. "I have other students."

"Surely one more is not an issue."

"No, no. I was just trying to think of when you would be able to come. Tuesday and Thursday, perhaps? From five to six in the evening?"

"Two hours, mademoiselle? I was hoping for more."

"Then from five to seven?"

Landa smirked. "Perfect, although I often have dinner around that time." He watched her squirm slightly. "I could have my secretary purchase some groceries for you, and we might dine together those nights."

"Colonel, that isn't necessary."

He shook his head. "I will have them delivered in the afternoon. In addition to your usual rate for lessons." He could see her thinking, weighing her options. He allowed himself a moment of triumph as she breathed out and her shoulders fell.

"Very well."

Landa gestured to one of the chairs in the room. "May we begin now?"

Daphne glanced toward the window. "The rain has let up. Come for your lesson tomorrow and we can begin."

* * *

Daphne couldn't believe what she had gotten herself into. Sure he was handsome, and his French was better than hers! But still, SS. She watched as he walked back down her street, his boots clicking against the cobblestones. _Well it wasn't as if you could have avoided it. He might have shot you if you didn't let him in._

Part of her brain argued back. _But lessons? What if he figures it out?_

_Be glad he's paying for them at least! He could have forced you to teach him._

Daphne shook her head, bringing up her fingers to massage her temples. "We'll deal with him tomorrow. That's all."

* * *

**AN: Welcome to my Inglourious Basterds, Landa/OC fanfic! *trumpet flourish***

**This is my attempt to fix what I have found wrong with some of the other Landa fics on the site. Some are good, but some just turn Landa into a bit of a bitch. And dear God, the Mary Sues. Anyway, this is my attempt, I hope you enjoy.**


	2. Beef Stew & Strudel

Daphne was watching Jean practice his scales when the knocking started. It was hesitant at first, a series of light taps, but then a couple solid hits. Daphne opened the door, looking at what appeared to be a bag of groceries that had grown a pair of legs. The bag shot forward, a young man peeking around the side. His hair was cropped close, his uniform hat hiding what little there was. "Ah, Mademoiselle Defarge!"

She opened the door a little more. "Do I know you?"

"I'm _Standartenführer _Landa's secretary, you can call me Hermann." He proffered the bag. "These are for you."

Daphne took them, setting them on a side table. "_Danke_, Hermann."

"_Sie sprechen __Deutsch_?"

"Sorry, I only know a few phrases." She switched back to French. "Yes, no, hello, the useful ones."

"You really should learn. German will be most useful in the future." Hermann smirked. "Also, the Colonel would like you to make strudel tonight."

Daphne wrinkled her brow. "I don't know how to make strudel."

"There is a recipe in the bag, Colonel Landa was unsure if you knew how." Hermann nodded. "I must go, I will see you later this week Mademoiselle." He turned around, walking away rather quickly. She closed the door, picking up the groceries.

"_Maîtresse_ Defarge? Who was that?" Jean called down from the top of the stairs. "Was he a German?"

Daphne waved a hand. "Go back to your practice or I will tell your mother."

"He was a German! Wasn't he?"

"Jean!" She snapped. "Back to your scales or you may go home early!" With a groan he turned around, stalking back to his cello. _The boy has some talent, but lacks discipline._ Daphne thought to herself as she carried the groceries into the kitchen. Landa certainly hadn't skimped on the food. Fresh apples, onions, beef bones for stock, and dear god, was that sugar? She licked the tip of her finger and stuck it into the brown sack before popping it in her mouth. Oh, it was definitely sugar. _I haven't had sugar since the war started._ There was more, steaks wrapped in white paper, carrots and celery tied in bunches, a jar of cream. And underneath it all was a recipe card from a well known restaurant that catered to Germans.

With Jean busy she started on the meal. The bones she browned, mixing in a bit of the onion. Those then went into a pot of water, set for a low boil. An excellent start for a stock. She quickly read through the recipe card, then set to slicing apples. Those went to the side, next came the dough. She kneaded, and stretched, and kneaded again. Finally she lined a pan with the dough, sliding the apples and sugar filling in. She wrapped the top of the dough over it, then covered it with a towel.

"Easy as pie." She muttered.

In English.

_Shit._

_Shit._

_Merde!_

Thankfully, over Jean's scales he could't have heard her. She dug her fingernails into her palm and bit her tongue, counting slowly to ten. _No English, ever. French. You are French. You are Daphne Defarge, you are French._ She let the pressure off, hissing a little at the pain. Daphne switched from her shortcoming to preparing what else was going into dinner. Vegetables were chopped and diced, bones were slid into boiling water, and the scales continued, rising and falling, rising and falling.

* * *

Even from outside he could smell whatever she was making. It smelled wonderful, and hopefully tasted as good. He wasn't dressed in his full uniform, since techincally he was taking these lessons on his own time. So he had just worn a simple white shirt and a pair of black pants. He had just reached up to knock on the door when it swung open. A tired, haggard looking woman was standing there, holding the hand of a young boy. She started backward, tugging the boy with her.

"Excuse me, we were just leaving." The woman said as he walked in. Her hand pushed the boy behind her, and she edged by him. She slammed the door as she walked out, bustling the boy away. Landa smirked at her shock, turning to Daphne. She was standing at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the rail.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Defarge." He nodded his head to her.

"To you as well, Colonel Landa."

"Oh, I'm off duty. Call me Hans."

"Then call me Daphne." She asked. He smiled, nodding. She shrugged. "Alright. Come upstairs." He couldn't help but admire the grace in her hand as she dragged it up the rail, fingers slowly slipping from the wood as she turned to the music room. He followed her into the room, sitting in the chair she gestured him to. She stood in front of him, looking down. "Hold out your arm."

He complied, allowing her to move it as she pleased. She pressed down on his elbow slightly, turning his palm over so that his fingers reached towards the ceiling. Her touch was firm, yet soft. He smirked at her. "What is this for?"

"Measuring." She grunted, turning to the shelves of instruments. Her fingers danced over their sides, tracing them like an ancient carving. Finally they snapped close over one, then another. She set them down on the desk, pulling out three violins. He watched as she lifted them, looked them over in the light. "Hold this." He complied, letting her wrap his fingers around the instrument. Then she took it away, bringing another. She seemed satisfied with that one, reaching over to adjust his fingers even more.

"You're sure of this one?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow. He looked over at the last one on the desk. "You don't want to try that one?"

A frown crossed her features. "No one uses that one but me."

"Sentimental value?"

"It was my grandfather's, yes." She replied, fetching it from the desk. It was battered, the wood dull, but she handled it as if it were a Stradivarius. Her fingers curled in a claw over the bridge, "Put your fingers like this."

He tried to comply, but evidently he didn't succeed. She pulled his fingers up so that they arched over the bridge, the intervals rather odd. "And this is?"

"So you can make the notes." She ran him through the names of the notes, the strings. He had to admit, the closeness would usually have made him grab the woman and either hit her or kiss her. But she was focused, keeping her eyes on the instrument. Then came the bow, again arching his fingers so that they would claw around the bow. He didn't even get to play the violin that night, merely move his fingers up and down and repeat the names of the notes. Once the sun had set she took the violin from his hands, placed it back in the case, and put it away.

His hands actually hurt, the fingers sore from the odd position. "That was different."

"Just the first day, next time you can play." She slapped her fingers together, as if cleaning off something. "How about dinner? I've got a stew going."

Ah, so that's what it was. "It sounds lovely." Goddamn, but he couldn't peg this woman. Her grandfather's violin was obviously a part of it, a clue to figure out exactly who she was. But he couldn't exactly get close to it without her noticing. Next time he'd ask her to show him something on the violin, then get a closer look at it. That would help, and he could look at her books, and maybe she would slip and say something. But for now, he really was hungry. So he followed her downstairs, and smelled the delicious stew that sat in the chipped china. It was savory, warm and filling.

"Good?" She asked over her bowl.

"Very, you are a fine cook." He toasted her with the glass of water she had provided.

She smirked. "Hard to be a good cook with no food."

"Don't you have a garden?"

"Can't exactly grow wheat in it." She snapped. "Flour's the hardest thing to come by."

Hans shrugged. "Isn't it better under German occupation? A nice bit of stability?"

"Stability?" She spat, her voice full of scorn. Then she seemed to realize her mistake. "I mean, yes it is very stable. Hardly any drunken fights since the champagne stopped flowing." Ah, so she was unsatisfied with the way the war was going. Not exactly unusual, but certainly something to hold over her head if he needed to. After the bowls had been cleaned, she pulled out the strudel.

"A masterpiece." He declared as she cut into it. She placed a large helping in front of him, a smaller piece for herself. "Do you have the cream I sent?"

"Oh, yes. That goes on strudel?" She said as she fetched it. "Is it a German thing?"

He smirked. "Austrian, where I'm from."

"Really?" She asked, popping her forkful into her mouth. "Do you miss it, Hans?"

He thought about it for a minute. He did, but then he didn't. He missed the mountain air, the clean snow that fell in the winter and the flowers that came in the spring. But he loved the chase, the thrill of the hunt that came in France. So he shrugged. "At times." The silence settled around them, the only noise the clink of silverware against china. Eventually, the strudel was gone, the cream scraped from the bowl.

He stood, bowing to her quickly. He lifted her hand to his lips, "Until next time, Daphne."


End file.
